The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  “Sounds good,” she says, and she sounds good too. Not even a sneeze or sniffle this morning, although I’m feeling a little warm.

  When we’re ready, I call Dad at the café.

  “Hi, honey. You and Ella have a good night?”

  “It was okay.”

  “You’re gonna give Owen back whatever it was you took from the boat? This morning? First thing? Right?”

  Whoa. I haven’t thought about the gaff hook or Owen Loney since yesterday. It seems like it all happened a month ago. There is no way we have time to dig it up this morning.

  “Yes, Dad. I’ll take it back as soon as I can.”

  “You girls get something to eat?”

  “Plenty. Ella’s house has food too, you know.”

  Ella’s giving me a wrap-it-up signal.

  “Well, come to the café any time you’re hungry,” Dad says. “And Quinnie, it’s pretty cold outside today. Bundle up. Love you.”

  “I will, Dad. Love you, Dad.”

  I turn to Ella. “Ready?”

  “Are we taking the gaff hook back to the Pound?”

  “Nope. Not now. We’ve got more important things to do.”

  “Do you think we should text Ben and tell him we’re on our way?”

  “Sure,” I say, but I don’t make a move to take out my phone.

  “So, can I use your phone? Mine is drowned, remember.”

  I hand it over, and Ella’s hands go to work.

  Watching her text Ben pains me, but I shake it off. What matters now is Ms. Stillford.

  “One more thing,” Ella says. “You need some eye shadow. So what’s it going to be? Sri Lankan Sapphire Blue or Garden of Midnight Temptations Green?”

  32

  My eyelids feel a little heavy with the Sri Lankan Sapphire Blue plastered from corner to corner. Ella’s shimmer with Garden of Midnight Temptations Green. She says eye shadow lifts and brightens our eyes, but it feels more like a mask, which might be okay if it makes us invisible.

  We sneak up the beach, past the scene of Skullfinger and Stevie’s botched boat landing last night. We climb the rocks up to the dense tree line and cut back through the woods until we’re hidden in the bushes across from the convent front door.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Ben. Ella and I huddle close to read it at the same time.

  Don’t get into trouble before I get home

  “Aww,” Ella says. “That’s sweet.”

  I study her face to see if she’s being sarcastic. She’s not.

  “Come on, let’s go, Monroe Spalding.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Ella and I are still crouched in the bushes waiting for something to happen. The seats of our pants are damp from the cold morning dew. When I touch my face, I can feel the heat radiating off of it. I pull away my scarf to cool my neck. Ella has her hands clamped over her nose and mouth. Cats have been picking their way through the leaves to greet us.

  “Go away, kitties!” I whisper.

  Ella swats at them, which only attracts more. Some of them are purring. Spiro is among them.

  The convent van is parked in the circular driveway. I look at my phone. 9:17 a.m.

  I’m about to tell Ella to hand me the binoculars when the convent’s front door opens. Sister Rosie steps out with a white apron around her waist, lugging two huge bowls. The cats yowl and bolt toward her. We scrunch low. She talks to them in a soft, musical voice.

  “Good morning, lovelies. Are you hungry?” She looks around as cats come leaping toward her from every direction. “Hello, Rocky. Hello, Bell . . . Wait a minute, who’s missing?”

  Ella whispers in my ear: “How could she ever know who’s missing?”

  I’m about to say I have no idea when a white cat with orange spots lumbers down the driveway and joins the breakfast crowd.

  “Esmeralda! There you are.” Sister Rosie bends over and puts the bowls down. “Here you go. Tuna and kibble and peas and carrots.”

  She stands up, presses her hands to her lower back, and looks to the sky while she groans through a stretch. I freeze as she begins to scan the trees nearby. Her eyes appear to fix on us, but they keep moving. She sighs and says, “Another crisp autumn day.”

  No sooner has Sister Rosie closed the big front door than Mom’s real estate SUV pulls up in front of the convent, followed by a red sedan. Some of the cats scatter; others keep eating. A woman in a black raincoat, clutching a clipboard and a pen, gets out of the red car.

  The woman looks at the convent like it’s a piece of art in a museum, then wrinkles her nose and scratches notes on her clipboard.

  Mom holds her hand up in front of the woman. “Let me talk to them first.”

  Mom barely gets that out before the door opens and Sister Ethel steps outside. The sister’s pointy expression makes her look thinner and bonier than usual.

  “Sister.” Mom clears her throat. “I assume you got a call from the monsignor this morning?”

  “We did.” It’s not a friendly reply.

  Mom moves toward the door like she expects Sister Ethel to step aside, but Sister Ethel blocks the way with her body. Mom’s posture subtly shifts from real estate agent to sheriff. I get a prickly feeling on the back of my neck.

  Mom reaches into her real estate lady briefcase, snaps out a piece of paper, and hands it to Sister Ethel. The woman with the clipboard steps forward and sticks out her hand. “How do you do, Sister? I’m Laura Burnside, the appraiser. All I really need to do is take a quick walk-through and ask a few questions. I can get most of what I need from the public records. It won’t take long . . . really.”

  Sister Ethel’s arm drops to her side, and the paper flutters to the ground. Mom leans over and picks it up. Sister Rosie appears in the doorway and hands paper cups to Mom and the appraiser.

  “Some nice cocoa for a cool Maine morning,” Sister Rosie says.

  Sister Ethel tells the appraiser, “The monsignor says you can look around on the main floor and that’s all. This is both a home and a place of prayer. No going upstairs to private quarters or into the chapel. Those are the rules.” She juts her chin like these rules are non-negotiable.

  Mom steps backward and looks up at the convent roof. The appraiser’s eyes follow her. The sisters don’t move.

  “I think that will be fine,” Mom says. “What do you think, Laura?”

  “I suppose I can extrapolate from the first floor,” Laura says.

  “Good, then. Let’s get this over with,” Mom says.

  The sisters back up into the convent, clearing the way for Mom and the appraiser.

  I turn to Ella, and I grab my backpack. “Let’s go!”

  We leap up and bolt across the driveway. Just before the big door closes completely, I grab the handle to stop it. Ella rushes up behind me. We wait for the voices inside to grow faint then we quietly slip into the dark foyer.

  33

  A musty smell engulfs us, and thick dust particles find their way up my nose. I muffle a cough in my armpit. It takes me a second to adjust my eyes and to remember what’s what.

  I haven’t been in the convent for almost five years, when the nuns hosted a Christmas Open House. In those days, more sisters lived here—maybe ten, and they showed us all around: up the front staircase and down the hallway. A brass number was the only identification on each of the sister’s bedroom doors, one through ten. At the end, the two French doors opened up into a stupendous solarium that smelled of balsam and sticky pine. From the solarium, we went down the back stairway to the kitchen for hot apple cider and ginger cookies.

  The space is the same, but the mood is drearier. Ella and I crouch behind the big, fat spindle at the base of the staircase and look into the large living room. Worn chairs crowd around small tables holding lamps with frayed, yellowed shades. An old upright piano with no bench stands against the wall. The seat cushion of a stuffed leather chair is split open, and stuffing puffs out like an exploded popcorn kernel. The place doe
s not look like it’s home to gold crosses or jeweled rosaries.

  The room after the living room is the dining hall, where the sisters, Mom, and the appraiser stand by a long rectangular table, like they’re in a scene from some old painting.

  I tap Ella on the shoulder and wave for her to follow me up the massive carved staircase. We hunch over and take each step slowly until my foot presses on a creaky board.

  The adults stop talking. We curl up like snails, hoping the large spindles will hide us.

  “What was that?” Mom says.

  “Oh, this old building has arthritis,” says Sister Rosie. “The aches and pains of old age.”

  A conversation about the condition of the roof starts up, and no one looks our way. I motion to Ella, and we head up the steps.

  The convent gets warmer as we reach the second floor landing. Brighter, too. The bedroom doors are all closed. At the end, I spot a large room, dense with greenery. “That’s the solarium,” I whisper to Ella.

  Downstairs, Mom shouts, “Sisters? We’re leaving now. I’ll be back with our interested party in a few minutes.”

  I listen for the sisters’ response but can’t hear them. I feel exposed in the middle of the hallway. Ella and I look at each other, and without saying a word, we take off running for the solarium.

  No sooner do we cross the threshold than we hear the sisters’ rising voices through the sea of leaves. They must have come up the back stairway. Ella and I drop to the floor and crawl on our bellies into the middle of the room until we’re under one of the wooden tables that support the plants. Through sagging loops of plastic tubing and wiring for grow-lights, I can see the sisters’ black skirts coming toward us.

  They’re arguing.

  “Hurry, Rosie. Pick the tea,” Sister Ethel says.

  “Even if it’s not ready?” asks Sister Rosie.

  “Pick it. Pick it all right now and bag it. I just got another email.”

  “What did they say this time?” asks Sister Rosie.

  The skirts move closer to us, and we tuck in our arms and legs as tightly as possible.

  “Let’s get rid of it all. We’ll give them their last big order and be done with it. Be done with them,” Sister Ethel says. “We’re not cut out to be farmers.”

  “We were fine until you went all hydroponic and made it so strong.”

  “So now it’s my fault? I thought you wanted more, more, more sales to save the convent,” Sister Ethel says. “I didn’t hear you complaining when we tripled production. Anyway, only Blythe says it’s too strong.”

  “But what if she tells Margaret?”

  “She can’t very well tell Margaret at the moment, can she?”

  “I suppose not. What a huge, unholy mess!”

  “Pick, Rosie.”

  “What about Blythe’s lunch?”

  “I think she can eat a little later today, Rosie. Now pick and bag. I’ll put on some music to keep us company.”

  My mind is tumbling, trying to understand what I just heard. The black skirts have stopped two tables away from us. My brain puts the pieces together like a caster gliding on the Ouija board, touching one letter after another until the truth becomes clear: S-I-S-T-E-R-S. Ms. Stillford hasn’t been kidnapped by the rockers, or Owen Loney, or John Denby. She’s been locked up by Ethelburga and Maria Giuseppe Rossello!

  I put my hands to my head like I’m trying to keep my brain from exploding. Ms. Stillford’s been here in the convent all along—locked up because of an argument over the tea.

  The sisters begin rustling through the plant leaves while Sister Rosie mutters, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  I turn to tell Ella, but I’m so shook up that only non-words come out. “Muh muh muh muh muh.”

  She puts her hand over my mouth.

  34

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Banging sounds from the front door. Thank goodness—Mom must be back.

  The sisters rush out of the solarium and down the hall. Sister Ethel calls out to the visitor as she descends the steps: “Just a minute, just a minute. Coming.”

  Sister Rosie follows, saying, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Ella and I scramble out from under the plant tables. I’m torn between running down the hall, yanking open doors looking for Ms. Stillford, and following the sisters downstairs to meet Mom. Ella makes the decision for us and pulls me toward the staircase. We crouch down and peek through the spindles.

  When Sister Ethel opens the front door, I hear Skullfinger say, “Yo, ladies. We’re the buyers.”

  Speaking to the rocker in her doorway, Sister Ethel says, “Where’s Margaret? We’re not quite ready for a showing yet.”

  “She couldn’t make it,” Skullfinger says as he moves inside, crowding the sisters backwards.

  “Do I smell smoke?” says Sister Rosie.

  I lift my nose and sniff. There is a faint smell of smoke, and a siren wails in the distance.

  “Oh, yeah,” Skullfinger says. “There’s a fire down the road. By those crappy old houses.” Through a pair of spindles, I see that Stevie has entered the foyer. “She’s probably down there, being the sheriff and all.”

  Uh oh. He knows Mom’s the sheriff.

  “A fire. Oh, my heavens,” says Sister Ethel.

  Cats are filing in through the open door as Skullfinger and Stevie take a few steps toward the stairway. Spiro runs up the stairs toward us.

  “Okay, Sisters—if you really are nuns, that is,” Skullfinger laughs. “No more real-estate shopping. You know what we want. So just hand it over—all of it. And while you’re going through the trouble, we’ll take your seeds, too.”

  A shiver slides down my spine as I realize the rockers aren’t here for chalices or Virgin Marys. They’re here for the tea.

  Ella and I shrink backwards on our hands and knees until we can try the first door atop the staircase, number one. Locked. We sprint to the second door on the right, number three. I hold my breath as I twist the knob. It opens. We dart in, and Spiro bounds after us. Ella carefully closes the door just as tattooed arms and flowing black fabric pass down the hall.

  Inside the room, a desk is crowded with pictures of a family, all with round cheeks; a clock with a sunflower face; cookbooks; little figurines of Jesus with children or lambs; and bags of mini Halloween candy bars from, where else, Walmart. It has to be Sister Rosie’s room. I rush to her window and see smoke billowing, ash flecking, police lights rotating, fire trucks spraying—chaos at the Abbott end of Mile Stretch Road.

  In an instant, I’m dialing Mom’s cell number. It rolls immediately to voice mail. I start to leave a message when I’m told, “This message box is full. Please try again later.” Which never happens.

  Sirens are still blaring outside. I realize that this is the rockers’ way of keeping Mom busy.

  “We have to keep looking in rooms,” I whisper to Ella. “Ms. Stillford must be in one of them.”

  She nods agreement, and we open the door and sneak a look. The sisters and the rockers are in the solarium facing the plants. Their backs are to us.

  We take a couple careful steps into the hallway. I’m about to whisper to Ella to try the door across from us when the rockers grab the sisters by their arms. It looks like they’re turning to come back our way. We have no time to do anything except grasp the knob on door number five and pray it opens.

  Ella’s so close behind me that she steps on my heel as we slip inside.

  “I don’t think they saw us,” Ella struggles to say.

  I put my ear to the door. The sisters are pleading with the rockers—for what, I can’t tell. When I turn to look around the room, I know immediately that it’s Sister Ethel’s. Two children dressed as a cowboy and cowgirl pose next to a pony in a yellowed photograph at a carnival. The cowgirl holds the reins. She has Sister Ethel’s face. CDs of blues artists and stacks of books about running a business are piled on a table next to a computer.

  I reach into
my pocket for my phone, to call Dad this time. What? Not again! It’s not there!

  “Oh, no, no, no! I can’t believe this!” I say. “I’ve lost my phone again!”

  “You just had it a minute ago.”

  I look around and check all my pockets. “Forget it,” I say.

  Skullfinger’s voice booms in the hallway. I crack the door open to hear better and peek.

  “Open the door, Sister,” Skullfinger says to Sister Ethel. Stevie and Sister Rosie are behind them. Sister Ethel doesn’t move. “Just open it, lady, and we’ll get what we want and get out of here.”

  “I don’t have the key,” Sister Ethel says and tries to slip around him.

  “Like I’m going to believe that.” He grabs her wrist. “Stevie,” he barks, “get the big one over here.”

  Stevie pushes Sister Rosie, and she lurches up to Skullfinger, almost losing her footing.

  Skullfinger puts his face up to Sister Rosie’s. “You two are testing my good nature. Now open that door.”

  Sister Rosie bursts into tears and hunts in her skirt pockets.

  “What’s in there, man?” Stevie tips his head to number ten.

  “When we were in with the plants, they kept looking over here. Must be where they keep the seeds.”

  Sister Ethel says, “There’s nothing for you in there. Everything you want is in the solarium. Take it all. I can’t even understand why you want it so much, but take it and get out!”

  Skullfinger grunts.

  Sister Rosie finally fishes the key ring from her pocket, and Skullfinger grabs it. “Watch these two,” he says to Stevie. He starts jamming one key after the other into the lock until he gets a match for door ten.

  Sister Rosie whimpers.

  Sister Ethel says, “No!”

  Skullfinger twists the knob, flings open the door, and does a double take. “What the—? Stevie, look at this.”

  35

  Skullfinger and Stevie hustle the sisters into number ten, and the door shuts behind them.

  Ella and I inch into the hallway. Spiro paces near the solarium like an angry bear-cat, mewing his discontent. I strain to hear what’s going on inside the room, but I can’t make out Skullfinger’s words. He’s arguing with the sisters—and—OMG. It’s Ms. Stillford.